


Uncollected

by mollymaymaukme



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Abuse, F/M, Just the Undertaker being creepy, Reader!Reaper, Reader-Insert, Reapers, Sorry Not Sorry, Suicide, dead body stroking (no necrophilia), first draft, held captive, unedited
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 12:28:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19376722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mollymaymaukme/pseuds/mollymaymaukme
Summary: The reader marries Alden Ashworth, a deadly mistake on her part. He would stop at nothing to figure out where she has hidden her family fortune. So she gets out the only way she knows how--death. On the other side the Undertaker take her under his wing. What is his interest in her?





	1. Hysteria

With a startled gasp you sit upright. Disappointment seeping into you as you realize that you are not dead. You kick the empty bottle on the floor. An uneven chorus of clinking glass ended by it shattering against the wall. “Can’t even die right!” You growl out, tearing at your hair. This wouldn’t do. Not at all. You had to find a solution-- fast. If you were still alive when he got back there was no telling what he was going to do to you. No. You had to die and take the secret with you. If he got a hold of you, you weren’t sure if you could keep from spilling your guts. 

If only the poison had worked, it could have been a little less painless. You hurry over to the vanity, rifling through the drawers as you search for your pair of sewing scissors. They were here somewhere. . .you curse. A hand coming up to rub at your eyes, a painful headache making your sight blur. 

The sound of the door opening downstairs makes you pick up your pace. Shit! At this point you begin dumping out the drawers. A flicker of silver catching your attention. You blink rapidly as you reach out to grab the scissors, missing several times as you misjudge the distance. Just as the door to the room opens you grasp onto the object, “Y/n!” He shouts out in shock and begins rushing towards you.

Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath as you prepare to plunge the blades into your throat. But. . .he is off to the side of you. Shouting your name whilst facing the other way. Turning towards him you drop the scissors at the scene before you. He was shaking your shoulders. You as in the body laying on the floor. “Y/n! Y/n!” He repeats over and over, slowly growing more enraged when your form remains limp in his hold. 

A sigh of relief leaves you as you collapse against the wall. You had succeeded! You had. . .succeeded. A chill runs down your spine. Was this the afterlife? Remaining unseen whilst still being capable of walking among the living? Oh god. You palm comes up to your mouth to stifle the panicked scream you can’t hold down.

Alden drops your body and it hits the carpeted floor with a thud. He doesn't seem to hear the scream as he stiffly arises. As if he were a marionette he turns on his heel and leaves the room in a daze. You hurry after him, hitting the door frame when you misjudge the distance. The pain solid and still very real. With a grimace you continue to follow him to the phone. He’s calling the police. His face twisting as he forces his tone into something more distraught, hurriedly explaining his wife isn’t waking up. When he hangs up his features return to the impassive expression you were so used to. But his eyes, those are burning with rage. 

A maniacal laugh escapes your lips unbidden. “You’ll never know!” He giggle helplessly right in his face, his eyes unseeing of you, “I win you bastard!” You clutch your sides as you slowly become hysterical “Can’t threaten a dead body into submission. I win!” 

You’re not quite sure how long it was between the phone call and the arrival of the police. As if in a trance you follow Alden from room to room, every now and then a hysterical giggle escaping you. “I win. . .I win. . .” you mumble over and over. 

Eventually Alden goes back out to the foyer to let in more people. Well, just one person. A man in the black robes of an undertaker. You can’t make out much beyond that, sight noticeably worse than when you had first ‘woke up’. You clutch to Alden’s sleeve, though he doesn't seem to notice it, to guide yourself. 

He leads the man upstairs to where your corpse is. The undertaker going about wrapping your body in a sheet as he directs the police to place you on a stretcher and take you out to his carriage. The tight lipped rage on Alden’s face as your body passes out the doors makes you break out into another bout of hysterical laughter. “I win bastard.” You smirk as you clutch to his arm, Alden completely oblivious to your presence. “My secrets die with me! You’re ruined!” Your slowly growing more and more unhinged “Bet you think I didn’t have it in me! But it's because of you  _ my love _ ” you sneer “you gave me all the encouragement I needed. The money will dry up. . .you and your whore will be tossed out on the streets. . .” You’re broken off by hysterical giggling “You’ll starve! Wither into  _ nothing _ , become the roach you truly are!”

The undertaker is speaking but it's hard to catch his words over your laughter. You lean more heavily into Alden as your need to breath outweighs the hysteria, growing quiet as you gasp in mouthfuls of air.  The blur of a white covered lump being pushed into the back of a carriage catches your attention. 

The undertaker slowly turns and you stumble away from Alden. “My. Body.” You mumble. Unsure of what new crazed urge drags your heavy feet towards the carriage. Each step unsure as the world is suddenly a new alien concoction of blurred shapes and too bright lights. Just as you had to Alden you grasp the undertakers sleeve to guide yourself down the steps. 

He pauses, face tilting in your general direction. His eyes covered by his hair make it hard to tell whether he was actually looking at you. But you brushed away the oddity. The guy hung around corpses all the time and was sure to have some strange ticks. No one could see or hear you. The last few hours securing that fact in your mind. 

He continues on as he climbs up on the carriage. When he adjusts his hat you are barely given enough time to hop up beside him. You’ve only just seated yourself when he whistles and clicks his tongue as the horses begin to move. The ride into London is strange and unfamiliar. Your sight drastically narrowed to things within a few feet of you. With a groan you hide your face in your hands. The sun, even on this overcast day, was to bright. A pounding headache picking up its throbbing just behind your eyes. 

“I win. I’m dead.” You keep murmuring. “Dead. Dead. Dead” The undertaker tilts his head when you speak but you remind yourself he can’t really hear you. “Stronger than him. He wouldn’t have the guts to do what I did. Always told me I was weak, but whose weak now? He can’t hide behind my name and money anymore. So deep in debt. People are going to come to collect now, you know” You say conversationally. But the man does nothing more than tilted his head and flick the reigns. “Now that I’m dead they’ll think he was willed my land and fortune. But no. I’m smarter than him. Planned it all a long time ago. . .”

You giggle “Fool. All brawn and no brain. Not even that viperous whore he kept picked up on it.” that knowledge makes you clutch your sides,  “Bankrupt. The bank’s coming for the estate and mansion. And he has no idea!” The man besides you huffs, perhaps laughter, but of course not. “He doesn't know where the money is hidden. He has nothing now. . .just another roach in fine clothes. All he’s got is a dead wife’s name that means nothing without the accoutrement.” Then the repetition starts again as the giggles die out “Dead. Dead, dead wife. Dead me. I’m dead. Dead. . .”

When the carriage arrives at its destination, the back of the building, the undertaker is quick to hop down and collect a few helping hands to carry your corpse inside. The sight of your sheet covered body jars you out of the constant mumbling and you slide off onto the ground. Or well, you try to. You greatly misjudge the distance and end up in a heap. Your knees throbbing from the impact as you slowly crawl back to a standing position.

Your one track mind doesn't notice that the undertaker is  _ holding the door _ as you shamble into the building. He passes a few coins to the men exiting and they get on the carriage, probably to take it to a nearby stable. Slowly you approach the sheet, laid out in the center of the room. There are no lights until the undertaker begins to light a few candles scattered throughout the room. The good news is the sparse lighting doesn’t hurt your eyes. The bad news is you can’t make out anything beyond a foot or two in front of your face. 

“So strange. . .” It's the first time you’ve actually listened to him. You don’t turn to the undertaker as the sound of metal tools comes from the corner. He walks into your peripheral and lays out a variety of surgical instruments beside your body. 

With detached interest you watch as he begins to cut your nightgown and robe from your body. “Its not like them to miss one. They must be getting sloppy.” As he parts the fabric he tsk’s “Speaking of sloppy. . .”

There were dark bruises and scabbed over cuts and tears in your skin. They were many, all over the parts of your skin that was always covered by clothing. Your face, neck, and forearms the only clear swaths of skin. He begins gently winding a tape measure around various limbs and separate sections of your torso. “To bad I can’t make anything with a low neck, I’ve been dying to introduce scooped necklines. . .” he sighs. 

A long black fingernail traces over your lips, dried bile trailing from them down your chin. You must have choked on the poison before finally passing away. He steps away to retrieve a cloth and a bowl of water. He methodically begins to clean your body, starting at your face and working his way down. “No need for an autopsy considering you’re here.”

And he is definitely looking at you. A smirk growing on his face as you stare at him, mouth opening and closing as you try to process. Silently you point a finger at yourself and his smirk turns into a grin “Yes you. Now how exactly did you go about getting so bruised and broken up my dear?”

“I’m dead.” 

“How astute of you to notice.” He turns his eyes back to your corpse and continues washing it of old blood and sweat from your terrified final moments. “If you continue on like a broken record than I will have to cut you open, figure out myself how you parted”

It’s not a threat. In fact he sounds upbeat and carefree. Still . . .you’re not sure if you have the stomach to watch him expose your organs.

“Homemade cocktail of various toxic substances.” With a hand on the edge of the table to guide yourself you wander closer to the undertaker. 

“Hmmm. Poison. . .” Your lips are pale and turning blue, the more pallid your skin grows the darker the bruises become. “And what of these?” He trails a finger almost sensually down your side, tracing the outline of a rather nasty black splotch on your stomach. 

“Husband.” Is your short reply and the undertaker merely hums in response. 

“Oh yes. He did offer quite a sum if I were to keep these details” His fingers ghost over the largest cut that grazes your breast “to myself” He finishes with a chuckle.

You huff “It's not like anyone’s gonna care how he treated his dead wife. If I were you I’d ask for the money sooner rather than later, he’s gonna run out.”

“Oh my dear, I don’t care for coin. I’ll just keep this little bit of information in mind if anyone deigns to learn about what really happened to you.” He steps away from your body and goes to retrieve a paper and pencil. He begins sketching something but you can’t see it in the low lighting and with your horrid eyesight.

“Learn?” You question trailing even closer to him.

“Officially you passed away in your sleep. Speculation points to an unknown blood clot in your brain that probably formed when you were younger.”

“But I wasn’t sick!” You protest grabbing onto his sleeve. 

He moves quick, to fast for you to comprehend and grasps your wrist. Spinning you around so your back is to his chest as he holds your arm daintily aloft. He speaks close enough to your ear that you feel his breath ghost over the shell “I’m not trying to stir up trouble, not unless someone pays me to. So we’re just going to go along with whatever you dearly beloved wants to say.” His other arm loops around your waist as he pulls you fully against him “Not like his words are going to mean anything when he runs dry, eh deary?” 

And he’s laughing. Properly. A full bodied laugh that allows you to break away from his hold and stumble across the room. He dances to a set of drawers and takes his hat off as he continues to chuckle. The only way you can tell he does this is by the change of his silhouette. He turns around to you, a hand pushing back his hair from his face “You must have been a clever one, weren’t you dear?” And even from this distance his eyes seem to cut through the blur. A clarity you hadn’t had since before you died as you stare at the fluorescent green. 

He’s suddenly upon you again. Fingers grasping your chin to tilt your face up towards his. His sharp gaze trailing over your features. “Why wouldn’t they collect a clever one I wonder? Maybe you’re defective.” His other hand circles your eyes with a dangerously long nail “I know reapers are terribly near sighted but this is by far the worst case I’ve ever seen.” When he pulls away you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding “Even if you couldn’t perform any duties at dispatch your soul still should have been collected. . .” He shakes his head “Sloppy.” He states again.

“What are you talking about?” Maybe you haven’t learned your lesson, maybe your stupid. But you pull away from the wall towards his blurred figure. 

“Reapers. . .As in the Grim Reaper my dear.” And you see the flash of teeth as he comes closer to you. “That’s what we are.” Again he grabs a hold of your wrist, but this time he is slow and gentle. Leading you out of the back room and up some stairs to what appears to be a sparsely furnished sitting room. 

The furniture is mismatched and old, the table is a coffin turned upside down. It's almost pitch dark until the undertaker, with you still in tow, begins to light the candles and lamps. In a corner is a table with a foot pedal sewing machine and various bolts of fabric stacked against the wall. Another wall has a door that is currently closed.

He guides you over to the couch filled with a variety of pillows, none of them matching. As he collects the candles and brings them to the ‘table’ so the area is more lit up he speaks “When a person takes their own life they become a reaper. Forced to watch others die over and over until some higher power decides you’ve learned your lesson and lets your soul rest.” He is moving so much around the room you can’t really keep track of him. He shoves a hand mirror to you, startling you and almost making you drop it. He tsks as he keeps a firm grip on it, his other hand pushing your hair out of your face. “All reapers have the same eyes.”

In the reflection you can see his own chartreuse eyes that were similar to you own. However his were sharp and clear while yours. . .were foggy. You blink several times to see if it was the blur of your own vision, but no, your eyes seemed to have a constant haze coating them. “The reapers work like a well oiled machine. Delegating tasks like making spectacles, creating the lists of souls, or actually retrieving the souls.” 

He pulls away but leaves you with the mirror. “Every time a soul is scheduled to die a reaper will go and determine whether they should die or live. Based of course on whether the continuation of that person's life would benefit the living world.”

He slinks over the back of the couch as he gets right up in your face “That's why you’re so strange my dear.” You avert your gaze from the sharp smile and curious gaze “Every soul is monitored and collected. Somehow you must of slipped through the cracks. . .”

“So what am I supposed to do?” 

“What indeed.” He hums to himself as his hair falls back across his face “I myself am no longer a fan of the organization and such a clever morsel like yourself would no doubt be of value to them.” He chuckles giddily “I know! You shall stay with me!”

“What if I don’t want to?” Your question making his entire face fall. He is a little more sinister without the smile as his eyes narrow at you.

“My dear,” His fingers circle your eyes again in a vaguely threatening manner. Your eyes water as they try and fail to focus on the nail dancing around them “You don’t really get a choice. Besides,  _ this _ ” his nail strokes your lashes as you tremble “is probably to do with whatever made you slip through the system in the first place. And I for one would love to possess the evidence of an error of Dispatch. . .for insurance purposes of course.”

“Why would you need insurance?” His nail trails down to your lips.

“Hush. No more questions for today. Now you be a sweet little dear and wait here while I work on your funeral dress.” His eyes scan over you form “And maybe something a little more lady-like for everyday wear.”

And even though your corpse lay nude downstairs you clutch your robe closed over your thin nightgown. Suddenly extremely self conscious. “Already seen it all my dear” he sing songs before floating over to the sewing machine. 

It would be useless to try and escape, you couldn’t get down the stairs without tripping. Besides, he was the only one who seemed to be able to see you and had knowledge on reapers. . .which apparently you were now. So you shuffle further into the multitude of pillows as you turn to watch him work. Really all you could make out was large swaths of fabric and his arms flinging things here and there.

Your headache, which you’d briefly forgotten about, comes back with force. With a soft groan you shut your eyes to fend off the throbbing. Body growing heavy as you lean into the cushions and without realizing it you begin to nod off. 


	2. Little Bird

When you wake up the candles have either been burnt down or extinguished. All except one. The single light comes from a fixture nailed to the wall above the sewing table that has a candle surrounded by mirrors. Reflecting the cage of the lantern around the room in a warm glow. The undertaker is however not at the table. You hear his voice down stairs but can’t work out the words. 

Slowly you get to your feet, hands out in front of you as you squint against your blurred vision. When you assure yourself you are at the edge of the stairs you feel your way down. Not trusting your own judge of the distance between each step. There is another door that you hadn’t noticed. Actually it is more like an archway covered by a cloth. It must lead to the front of the establishment. You approach the archway and you can hear much clearer now.

You. . .recognize one of those voices. “Earl Phantomhive?” You murmur. The other room goes silent. The curtain is pulled away as a tall figure stands before you. The light from the windows behind him reducing him to a shadow.

“Reaper.” His tone akin to something you might use when describing something particularly disgusting that has attached itself to the bottom of your shoe. 

And you flinch away from this man. No, not man.  . .demon. An inherent knowledge that makes your entire being cringe at his presence. 

“Not quite” The undertaker’s voice suddenly cutting instead of cheerful. He cuts between you and the demon, an arm pulling you to his side. You don’t resist. Leaning into his presence which is somehow comforting in the face of an enemy. Yes, demons were your enemy. You could feel that in your core. His aura unsettling as you try to tuck yourself closer to the Undertaker.

“Lady Ashworth?!” And now you know its him. But how could he see you? “What are you doing in the company of this lunatic?”

“She is a Reaper my lord” The demon explains and with a long inhale “And a relatively new one at that.” He eyes the Undertaker suspiciously. “How exactly did she come to be in  _ your  _ company?”

You feel the Undertaker shrug “Just followed her own body here to my humble establishment.” You can practically hear the cheeky grin. “Not sure why she hasn’t been picked up yet. . .” He is holding back. You can tell from the overly mischievous tone he isn’t going to tell them everything. “Just making her something proper, that's all. Not polite to barge in on a lady when she’s underdressed now is it?”

At his own words he is shrugging off his black robes and placing them around you. The fabric swallowing and effectively covering you. The Undertaker is a rather tall and lean individual but when you grasp onto his arm again you can feel the wiry muscle he must be built out of.

“Earl. . .how can you see me? Even my husband couldn’t hear me.”

The demon and boy share a look, you can’t really discern their expressions. But when the demon turns back to you he bows with an arm across his chest. “That would be due to me Lady Ashworth. Those who keep the company of the supernatural can pick out what others usually can’t.” 

“How can you be a Reaper? I saw you just the other week at the Duke’s ball.”

“Now now little lord” the Undertaker chides “A gentleman shouldn’t ask the details of the lady’s parting.”

“Parting?” Ciel growls “Sebastian make this fool speak in clear sentences.”

The demon kneels next to his lord “He is my lord. Reaper’s are created from the deceased. I believe this is what he is referring to when he says ‘parting’.”

The boy has enough sense to feel guilty over his insistent prodding. “Dead? Lady Ashworth I apologize but I must ask how you died.” And by his tone you think he knows. If anyone paid half a mind they could tell your husband hadn’t been quite as doting as he pretended to be. 

You are about to answer but the Undertaker slides a hand over your mouth “Ah ah, We don’t give out information for free.” Then he bends down to speak in your ear, though the other two can still hear him “First rule of the business.”

This riles up the young lord even more “Lady Ashworth. Say the word and I shall see to it that you may have a place at my estate, away from this freak.”

The Undertaker's hand falls from your mouth. His arm instead drapes over your shoulders as he guides you in front of him. “Think about your choice carefully my dear.” He sing song’s.

Why would he. . .? He had told you earlier that you didn’t have a choice. That you couldn’t leave, so why? Oh. When you look up and see the demon gazing at you with distaste you understand. He knew what you were going to choose. 

“Earl Phantomhive, I appreciate the offer but I’d rather stay here. Out of the way, where I can work out the ‘Reaper’ thing.” The lie flows with so little effort. You’d never been even able to tell a fib before. That’s why you’d chosen death over your husband attempting to ‘persuade’ your secret from you. 

He sighs heavily “As you wish. My offer still stands if you change your mind later.” You offer a tight lipped smile in response.

“My Lord, I don’t mean to rush you but if we want to find him we should leave soon.”

Ciel puts his hat back on “You’re right.” He nods to where you stand against the Undertaker “Undertaker, Lady Ashworth.” You both nod back and Sebastian opens the door. Allowing the young lord to pass before shooting a glare at you and the Undertaker.

He juxtaposes the harsh gaze with a smile “Have a nice day.” And with that he is gone. You stare out after him, realizing throughout the encounter that your whole body had tensed up. 

“I told you to wait. . .” And the Undertaker’s arms are now wrapping around you as he pulls you against him. “Such a disobedient little bird.”

“I-i woke up and you weren’t there. . .” You don’t really have an excuse, honestly you hadn’t even thought about the request/order. “I just came down to find you.”

His fingers guide your face back so he can look down at you. He hums in thought “It's getting worse, isn’t it?” You don’t really know what he’s talking about but then it hits you. His face, not far from you own, was slightly blurred. You vision was getting worse.

Your small gasp answers his question. He frowns down at you for a long moment before he is twirling you around to face him. The world spinning at the quick change of position. “Come along deary, I’ve got something for you to try on. He loops his arm with your own as he whisks you to the back room, past your body, and up the stairs. 

He lets you go at the top and allow you to find your way back to the chair’s yourself. It is a rather embarrassing attempt. You run into the side of the chair when you’re trying to walk around it. You huffed in frustration and to his credit the Undertaker doesn't laugh.

He grabs something off the table before presenting it to you with a bright smile. “How does it look? Is it up to snuff for an aristocratic lady?” He worked quickly. The dress wasn’t finished, still mostly pins and raw edges. But you could see what the final product might resemble. 

It was a pale blue with a swirling navy floral pattern. (Why he had a fabric that wasn’t black was beyond you.) The neck of the dress would dip below your collarbone. White laced framing the neck and the quarter sleeves had their own lace trim that would hang at your elbows. It was. . .delicate. He drapes the dress over the back of the chair and begins to pull his robe off of you. “Hurry now my dear.” 

In an action that surprises you both, you slap his hands away. “I can disrobe by myself!” You snap--before immediately recoiling at his sharp grin.

“Oh ho, what a feisty little bird.” He holds up his hand in mock surrender and steps away “Have it your way. But if you pop any pins I’ll be  _ very _ upset.” He continues to back up until he hits the door and slinks inside the unknown room.

You mumble something about asshole corpse lovers as you undress. A moment passes where you’re wearing nothing at all and simply staring at yourself. No bruises. Not one. Your body hadn’t been like this since--before your wedding night. Carefully sliding into the dress, mindful to not strain any pins or unfinished seams. “I’m decent.” you call once you’ve finished. 

He must have been just on the other side of the door because he bursts out of the room. Rushing over to you in excitement. You feel much like a living doll (if only you  _ knew)  _ as he lifts and lowers your arms. Moving pins about as he mutters to himself. “Oh I am so happy you decided to stay.” He’s repinning the hemline of the skirt, looking up at you with a knowing look “I get to make so many new things that don’t have to be black or modest.”

He stands and takes your hand as he guides you in a slow spin. Looking at every angle of the garment. “How delicious.” He snickered when you face him again. “Now can you slip out of it yourself?” His tone still playful but you could tell his question was genuine. 

Testing the stretch you slowly shake your head. “I’ll close my eyes if you’d like?” and. . .you can’t really believe he would offer such a thing. He washed your naked corpse hours before. So really the only one hung up on modesty here was you. But you still nod, relieved for the offer. He unpins a side of the bodice so you have enough room to take it off. He offers an arm, eyes shut, for you to lean on while stepping out of the skirt. Once you were out of the garment he turned away. Allowing you to slip your nightgown and robe back on. 

“Decent” You murmur. He turns back around and gathers the dress in his arms, taking it back to the sewing table. Already getting back to work. You stare at him for a long minute, he wore black trousers and a white dress shirt topped with a black waistcoat. In a practiced motion he pins his bangs up out of his face as he bends over to inspect a seam. 

You take up residence on the couch once again, leaning your chin on the back to watch him. Well, watch him as well as you could. He was just a blur of grey hair that moved occasionally in this lighting and distance. Even though you fight it you are soon lulled to sleep again. Dieing was an exhausting process after all.

The Undertaker rouses you with a gentle shake to the shoulder “Wakey wakey my dear.” You mumble something that doesn't make sense to either of you. Slowly sitting up to rub the sleep from you eyes. “Its dinner time.” He grins as he goes to sit in a chair across from the couch. You blink rapidly to focus on the contents on the coffin (table). There were two plates of bread and some kind of roasted meat. Beside those were two silver goblets filled with red wine, the bottle off to the side. 

A small chuckle makes the Undertaker perk up. “What’s so funny deary? I do love funny things.”

You gesture at the spread “In all my years I have never had a dinner in the dark by candlelight.” You pick up the wine glass to take a sip “And now I’m having my first one, on the day I died with a man who spends his days with a bunch of corpses.” You put a finger to your lip “Oh, and can’t forget I’m a supernatural being now too!” You shrug.

He tilts his head at you like a confused dog “That's not funny. It's just sad.” 

You stab a slice of meat forcefully as you glare across at him “Well sometimes the only thing to do is laugh at sad things. Cause they’re sad.” You bite out.

He shakes his head, and you realize he still has his bangs pinned back. Giving you a clear view of his expressions. “No. From now on you will only laugh at things that make you happy, or joyful, or lighten your mood.” He looks so stern.

Now it's your turn to be confused. “I can’t really help my reactions.”

“Well, try.” He says matter of factly before tearing off a large chunk of bread. 

You don’t try to further argue. Instead you focus on finishing your dinner. It was far from the lavish meals you had at your estate. But you find you’re too hungry to care. Before you know it you’ve both finished your food. You lean back into the couch, nursing your glass of wine that was almost empty. You stifle a yawn against the lip of your cup, goodness. How could you still be tired?

The Undertaker sets his glass down and coaxes your own from your fingers. “Come along dear. I think you should get some proper rest. Transitions are never easy. I suspect you’re having some extra trouble since you’ve been left wandering without collection.” He explains while he guides you, by the hand this time, to the mysterious room. Grabbing a candle on his way in. Releasing you to go and light another mirrored lamp to light up the room. 

The dominant furniture in the room was the four poster bed, draped with velvet navy curtains. Another piece of fabric is pinned over the window. The only hint that there is a window is the fabric’s end blowing up slightly in the breeze. The Undertaker sets the candle down on a nightstand before he goes to close the window next. There is a large floor length mirror in one corner. A large wardrobe beside that. The wood floors creak as you slowly wander further into the room. 

He comes up behind you, slipping your robe from your shoulders. “Just rest here little bird. I’ll be in the other room.” You allow him to guide you to sit down on the bed. Crawling under the covers as your head seems to fall by itself towards the pillow. He reaches across you to shut the curtains on two sides of the bed. His hand brushing through your hair in what might have been a comforting gesture. You’re not sure, so close to the edge of slumber. He draws the last curtain closed, shrouding you in complete darkness. You hear him walk across the creaky board and the door shut.

You fall asleep to the sound of the press of the pedal on the sewing machine.


End file.
